


A Song for the Stranger

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, SanSan Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:52:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17103539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: For the SanSan Secret SantaSandor finds someone unexpected in the Vale





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cornix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornix/gifts).



> Prompt: Early morning, rime, secret meeting

Sandor could only press his lips together and scowl, and not for the first time did he think that maybe this whole _‘vow of silence’_  agreement had little to do with penance and more to do with control.  It certainly seemed convenient now when the man handed over orders without asking if he was even interested in following them.  After a few more moments of angry silence, the Elder Brother smiled and waved his hand.

“Yes, you may speak.”

“Why the _fuck_ would you send me to the Gates of the Moon?”

“Brother, please,” the man admonished.  “That language is not welcome here, we’ve talked about this before.”  He shook his head to show his disappointment. “You ask a fair question.  We have a new lord in the Eyrie-- Harrold Arryn-- and he is anxious to wed.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” Sandor grumbled.

“Yes, well, Lord Arryn’s betrothed is a devout follower of the Seven and insists on a proper wedding in a sept.  They have a sept, fortunately, but no septon. No septon, no wedding.”

“Still don’t see how that’s my problem.”

The Elder Brother smiled with practiced patience.  “Lord Arryn is anxious to wed, and has asked us to provide a temporary solution until a permanent one can be found.”

“You want me to go act like a buggering septon?” Sandor sneered.

“Language, please,” the Elder Brother sighed.  “And no, of course not. Brother Narbert is going, and you will accompany him, keep him safe, that sort of thing.  And please, don’t ask again how this is your problem. If you want to stay here you need to accept our problems as your own.”

“Very well... I don’t see how this is _our_ problem.”

“We’re the closest option for them right now, and as I’ve said-- repeatedly-- Lord Arryn is anxious to wed, and he’s willing to pay handsomely for our services.  And frankly, we need the coin what with winter fast approaching.”

“Winter is coming,” Sandor mumbled absently, drumming his fingers on the table between them.

The Elder Brother regarded him with kind eyes.  

“I know this is hard for you, but the Vale is far removed from the war, hardly touched at all, really.  No one will be looking for you in a sept at the Gates of the Moon-- you keep your hood and cowl on and you’ll be fine.  Nothing to worry about, I promise.”

Sandor hated-- _hated--_ the way the man talked to him as if he were some sort of weakling.  He needed no coddling in this endeavor, and he wouldn’t tolerate anyone thinking otherwise.

“Will I get to take my horse?”

“Well, _we_ certainly don’t want him,” the older man laughed.

“Will I get to take my _sword_?”

“Of course.  You leave on the morrow, and don’t delay-- the sooner you get there, the higher our payment.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“You’re not supposed to be drinking wine.”

 _“You’re_ not supposed to be drinking wine,” Sandor growled back at his judgmental companion.  “I didn’t take your vows, I’m not breaking any rules.”

Brother Narbert gave him a reproachful look but otherwise returned to his cleaning in silence.  

Sandor stifled a groan.  Things had been very very different since the Elder Brother had found him, closer to death than he cared to think about and offering a place to stay… and a bit more.  It was that extra bit that had changed him. People had always demanded things of him but the penance he was ordered to seek on the Quiet Isle had been a harder bargain than any of the others and made him a different sort of man-- one that recognized his past wrong-doings, one who sought to set things right… and one who felt guilty for yelling at Narbert like that.

Wordlessly he found a broom and met the older man in front of the Maiden, working side by side to clean the first altar.  They would spend the entire night readying this sept for the wedding of some lord he’d never heard of; the lord was not his concern now, only the sept.   

They’d arrived at the Gates of the Moon not even an hour past, their journey here mostly uneventful and almost entirely silent even though they’d both been granted permission to speak.  Not that Sandor really needed that permission-- he’d only kept silent out of a grudging respect for the Elder Brother, not because of any vows.

But now, outside the sanctity of the Quiet Isle, he felt himself slipping a little too quickly into his previous habits.  While Narbert had settled in, looking for methods to clean up the sept and clucking about the sad state of things in the Vale, Sandor had wandered off to find wine.  He’d only had a little, though; just enough to take off the edge of worry that had settled into his stomach.

 _No one knows me here,_ he reassured himself.  Standing in the dim light of the sept, taste of wine fresh on his lips as he scrubbed dirt from the Maiden’s toes... he half wondered if anyone ever _had_ _._

“This is odd,” Narbert announced suddenly, standing before the Stranger.  “Come here, brother.”     

Sandor had always had a bit of a fondness for the god of death-- a necessary tool, just like him, and always ignored by the people… just like him.  But here at the Gates it seemed someone else had a fondness for the Stranger, too. Candles were piled all over the altar, crowded around the god’s feet, loaded onto the crook of his arm, his hands, even the skull he was holding... so many candles and all burned to tiny, sooty stumps.  It was no doubt more love than the neglected god had ever seen.

“Not everyone has forgotten the gods that made us, it seems,” Narbert hummed and pried a candle from the Stranger’s shoulder.  “There’s a little alcove behind the Smith-- see if you can find something to put all these candles in.”

The Hound would have ignored that sort of directive, but Sandor followed Narbert’s instructions anyway, retrieving a moth-eaten old bag and returning from his mission just as a memory appeared in the doorway, striding past the place where he hid in the shadows.  

To say he was surprised to see her there would be an injustice to the word itself.  ‘Surprise’ seemed way too mundane, and implied something vaguely pleasing-- an unexpected visit from a near-forgotten friend, for example, or a gold dragon found in the dirt.  No, the enormity of what he felt in that moment could never be summed up as _surprise._  What he felt instead was that something was very very wrong.

The girl didn’t bother with introductions, spared no glance for the brother fretting at the Stranger’s altar even as she approached it, flint in hand.  Mere heartbeats later she’d lit one, two, three candles, slipped a hand over the skull and closed her eyes in quiet contemplation, as serene as if she was surrounded by family.  And all the while Narbert watched with mouth hanging open.

A better man would have left her to her prayers-- a kinder, more pious man.  Narbert was not that man.

“You pray to the Stranger,” he accused.

“Yes.”

Her answer was succinct, complete, and (if Narbert’s wrinkled nose were any indication) wholly unsatisfactory.

“Are you perhaps the lady getting married on the morrow?  We’ve heard she’s a devout follower of the Seven.”

“I’m the one getting married tomorrow, yes,” she said, and turned to face his brother.  “But I’m no lady. I’m Alayne, Lord Baelish’s natural born daughter.”

“Natural born?  I thought…”

The notion trailed off, unfinished, though Sandor knew exactly what he meant to say.  A _bastard?_  Marrying the lord of the _Vale?_  And it was an understandable question but one that never got asked, because Sansa gave Narbert a look so icy it froze the derision right on his lips.

“Yes... well... no matter,” Narbert floundered.  “But tell me, dear-- why do you pray so much to the Stranger?”

“I pray to _all_ of the gods,” she countered, straight-backed and proper and... dull.  Cold.

“But why so much to the _Stranger?_  You’re in the full bloom of your youth, you should be praying to the Maiden.  Or to the Mother, to guide you in your marriage.” Narbert shook his head. “Praying to the Stranger is simply not done.”

“Why not?  We all die eventually.”

“You pray for life, _not_ for death,” Narbert said, and even Sandor was irritated by the man’s condescending tone.  “You’re misguided, child. Or confused. Not your fault, of course, you have a woman’s heart and a bastard’s blood, it’s no wonder you don’t understand.”

Sansa squared her shoulders; narrowed her eyes.  “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

“Would you like me to guide you in a prayer now?”

“No, thank you.  My feeble mind is terribly sore from all this new information and I think I need some sleep.”

With that she spun away, exited the sept in the same breezy manner in which she’d entered it though there was nothing about her demeanor that seemed quite as light as her footsteps.  She hadn’t even bothered to snuff the candles.

Sandor waited until she was well and truly gone before emerging from the shadows.

 _“There_ you are,” Narbert huffed then set him straight to cleaning.

Hours passed as they worked from altar to altar, every god getting past-due attention.  Narbert never shut up about the bastard girl who’d come by, never stopped lamenting the disrespect of youths these days as if young people had always been respectful instead of simpering little fools.  Sandor did his best to ignore it.

Too many thoughts in his head, too many memories, too many regrets, too many questions-- his eyes felt ready to burst from the pressure in his skull.  He needed more wine and lots of it.  After Narbert declared the venue ready for a wedding and retired for the evening, Sandor found the forgotten wineskin and drank the rest of it down, alone in the sept, looking out the window.  

 _Baelish’s bastard,_ he sneered.  It was no wonder the girl prayed to the god of death after everything she’d been through, especially after she landed in Littlefinger’s clutches. But if she was _still_ praying to the Stranger what did it mean about her future?  Was she just as unhappy about marrying this new lord as she undoubtedly was about marrying the Imp?  

The hours crawled by, step by step towards dawn and all he could do was sit there, staring up at her castle, staring back at his past.  What was he supposed to do? Offer an escape? Kidnap her? Leave her? If he sought her out now, would it go better or worse than the last time?  And did he dare risk his life-- and perhaps hers as well-- to find out? He wasn’t so sure that was the wisest course of action, or even what she wanted.  

In the end, though, he didn’t seek her out at all.  In the end... she came to him.


	2. Chapter 2

Alayne was drunk.  She didn’t care. Father would be furious but… these were the last few hours of relative freedom, her last chance of escape, so if drinking made thoughts of her future more tolerable then so be it.

She wasn’t sure what compelled her to head to the sept that morning, not since the gods had failed her at every turn.  But there she was, wading through deep drifts of snow in boots that went up to her knees, flakes swirling around her and making her head spin even more than the wine had.  By the time she pushed through the door of the sept she was nearly too dizzy to stand.

 _All_ of the candles were gone.  It was the first thing she noticed when she reached the Stranger’s altar, scrubbed clean of any wax and soot.  The condescending brother must have taken them all away, certain of her confusion and no doubt hoping to make the sept a lovely venue for her wedding.  And why shouldn’t he? Time was, she would have appreciated the effort. But now... she only resented the man’s presence.

She’d insisted on a proper wedding in a sept only because she knew they had no septon and had reached for any plausible reason to delay the inevitable.  Father had raged against her suggestion, hissed about the presumption of a bastard making demands but Alayne refused to yield. And the tactic had worked… for a little while.  No longer. She was getting married today, and that was the end of it.

Alayne looked up up up at the dark statue in front of her.  The Stranger was neither male nor female, everyone knew that, but this figure had the noticeable body of a man-- tall and solid, intimidating in his stance.  One hand held a skull aloft while the other clutched his cloak closed, and deep in the shadows under his hood she could just make out the twisted features that hinted at his darker side.  

 _Half man, half monster,_ she mused.

It seemed a little unfair that people couldn’t respect the Stranger the same way they respected the other gods, too afraid of this half-demonic being.  Alayne wasn’t afraid, not really, though she wasn’t entirely certain of why. Maybe she understood something no one else did. Maybe she was just used to death, having found it nearly everywhere. 

Or maybe it was something else.  In the darkness she reached for the figure, ran a finger down the nose and carefully traced the lines of his face before resting her hand across his cheek.  And remembered. As she always did.

“It wasn’t the scars,” she whispered, wishing he could hear.  “It was your eyes.”

Something moved in the shadows off to her side, and she flinched and gasped when she caught sight of a cloaked and cowled man who had not been there moments ago.  For half a heartbeat she thought the Stranger had come to life, had finally brought her the escape she craved, no matter how high the price. But his cloak was too modest, too brown and shabby.  This was yet another brother of the faith.

“Apologies, I didn’t know anyone else was here,” she said, finding her courtesies on instinct.  “I’m Alayne, the fortunate girl who will be getting married today.”

_Again._

She hadn’t meant to sound so bitter when she told him that, worried for just a moment that he would know she was unhappy but… what did it matter if he did?  Plenty of people knew she was unhappy, but none of those people cared. Why should this one?

She frowned up at the Stranger.  If only she had a candle. It would be better if she had a candle.

“Tell me, brother… why are there no songs for the Stranger?  Every other god has a song, but I always have to make up my own for the Stranger.  It’s terribly inconvenient.”

She waited for the lecture on how singing to the Stranger was _‘simply not done’,_ certain this brother would be just like the last one, but the only sound in the sept was her own labored breathing.  She cast a curious glance in the stranger’s direction-- his hands were clasped in front of him and his head was down but she was absolutely certain he was watching her, had no doubt he’d heard every word.  

“You don’t speak?” she guessed; the solemn figure shook his head.  “Well, then… I already like you better than the other one.”

Alayne sighed when she turned her attention back to her god, sending a puff of white air floating before her eyes.  There was a time she would have felt guilty for speaking so unkindly, even if it was true. But now…. well, it wasn’t as if this brother would tell the other one.

The other one.  The one come to marry her off, _today._  There would be no rescue from this nightmare, not for her.   

“I suppose he really is dead,” she slurred, tongue loose from the wine.  Loose from despair.

“They said he was cruel but he wasn’t, not truly.  And they said he was craven… but that wasn’t true, either.  They could be wrong about this, too. And... I think I would feel it if he was gone.  Somehow, I would know.”

Another deep sigh; another puff of white.  

“I just always thought he’d come,” she pouted, feeling every bit the little girl she wished she still was.  

The brother pointed a questioning finger at the Stranger.

“No, not him,” she answered, though she supposed she’d always thought _HE_ would come as well.  “Someone like him.”

It was true, even if it sounded absurd.  Back in King’s Landing when she was someone else, he had always been there to catch her before she could fall-- on the serpentine, on the battlements, on her horse, in the field… he was _always_ there.  So if anyone was willing to come catch her now, shouldn’t it be him?  It would be fitting. The sort of thing that happened in songs.

“He would laugh at me, if he knew.  He’d tell me my head is full of songs and stories, that I was the same silly little bird and… I don’t think it would even bother me if he did.”

He was listening to her, she could tell, could feel the intensity of his gaze.  Absently she caressed the skull the Stranger held before dropping her hand to her side.

“I’m _not_ the same, though.  Not since…”

Memories flashed unbidden through her mind-- a purple face gasping for breath, a mob hurling refuse, Ice in the wrong hands.  Alayne closed her eyes and shook the images away.

“Not the same,” she insisted again.  “No, someone else entirely. No one knows me here.  At times I think perhaps no one ever did.”

The brother _huffed_. Something shifted in the air between them at that moment though she couldn’t say what; maybe it was just the relief of laying down the burden of her thoughts, if only for a little while.  

Or maybe it was something more.  The brother raised an enormous hand, surprising her, but he seemed to only want her attention.  She watched him walk toward the window, raise that huge hand again, finger sliding lowly across the glass and melting the rime to make a circle, two peaks, a mouth, some eyes... When he was done he turned and pointed that finger at her.

“Is it a cat?”

The brother waved his arms-- a quite frustrated no-- then wiped the image away, moving on to the next window to draw something that looked... almost exactly the same, pointy ears and all.  And again, pointed to her.

“It still looks like a cat.”

The man _growled_ at her. Alayne stifled a laugh; she couldn’t help it! This odd, one-sided conversation was the most honest one she’d had in ages, and the teasing only made it better.  

So she tried especially hard to guess correctly when he started drawing again, ears a little bigger this time, and though it still looked like a cat she knew that was wrong.  Which meant it had to be...

“Oh, a dog, I see it now,” she laughed, pleased to have puzzled it out.  “I like dogs better than cats. Cats are devious and self-serving, but dogs… a dog will die for you, but never lie to you.”   _And he’ll look you straight in the face._

The brother paused, head turning sharply to look at her for a long moment before moving to the next window.  He began to draw again, this time abandoning the circle and instead creating the silhouette of a dog in profile, pointed snout first followed by the long lines of its body, ending in the curl of a tail.  When he was done he one again turned and pointed a sure finger in her direction.

Alayne blinked at the image, confused.  It was a rough sketch, for sure, but she didn’t think that was a dog.  It almost looked like… a sigil. One that she should know. She glanced at this stranger again, everything about him suddenly so _familiar_ \-- the drawing in the rime, the slope his shoulders, the fluttering in her belly… and the hand that reached for hers and pulled her closer, slid a rough thumb up her pointer finger until it was straight and guided it to the frosted window before them.

_S…_

It took her a moment to realize what he was doing, didn’t understand till he continued--

_A…_

A sick feeling crept into her belly-- this was more than a guess.  And she did not want to play this game anymore.

_N…_

But when she tried to pull her hand away he held her still, firm but oddly-gentle.  Alayne swallowed hard as a memory stirred, but didn’t fight him when he drew--

_S…_

He knew her, knew exactly who she was.  And she should be afraid, probably, to be so very alone with a stranger in the sept, a stranger who could hurt her if he wanted to. But that wasn’t fear making her heart skip when he finished with--

_A._

This time when she pulled away he allowed it, and she stumbled backwards and would have fallen if not for the hands that reached for her, caught her by both arms and righted her.  And then she knew. She _knew_.  Who else could it be?  

It was _Sansa_ who examined this man now, looked for signs that he was who she thought he was, anything to prove she was right.  His head was down, face covered and eyes averted, but she needed to see him. She so desperately needed to see him. He didn’t try to stop her when she reached for him, allowed her to pull at the hood of his cloak, to unwind the scarf that covered his mouth and nose, tug at the cowl till at last his face was revealed.  

And all she could do was gape.  So many times she’d imagined something just like this that she almost couldn’t believe it was real, thought that surely her mind had invented those scars and silver eyes, like in all of her dreams.

“Have I gone mad?”

He nodded.  “Probably.”

Oh that voice.  She’d almost entirely forgotten that harsh rasp, couldn’t have imagined it sounding like that because she only just now remembered it that way.  It was him. He was here. She stood looking up at this man who couldn’t meet her eyes, fierce and warm and... softer, somehow. Enough similarities to know it was him; enough changes to know it was _really_ him.

“You’re smaller than I thought,” she told him, but the scowl he gave her was so much like the one she remembered that soon she was laughing.

And then she was crying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my haste to get the first chapter posted I neglected to make some Very Important notes:
> 
> 1) There’s a bit in here that I wrote more than 3 years ago, just a little collection of sentences that I always liked but never had any way to use. Until now. :-) So…
> 
> 2) Thanks to cornix for the cool prompt. Hope you like what I did with it!
> 
> 3) Thanks to sansansecretsanta for organizing this event, you kept us on time and on task and moving forward. That could not have been easy, and I really appreciate the time you devoted to this and to the fandom.
> 
> 4) Thanks to The_Immaculate_Bastard and mademoislle_k who let me lay out the plot for them and provided much-needed feedback. 
> 
> 5) Thanks to everyone who listened as I wallowed in self-doubt, including (but unfortunately not limited to): jillypups, bex-xo, sarahcakes613, vanilla-lu, mademoislle_k, SnowWhiteKnight, lalelilolu, pinkolifant, The_Immaculate_Bastard, and BlueLemons. I uh… sorry about that.
> 
> 6) And thanks to everyone who read, I sincerely appreciate every hit, comment, and kudo!

The girl was taller than last he saw her, and prettier though he never would have thought that was possible. And so much  _sadder._ He watched those tiny shoulders shake, feeling guilty for reasons he couldn’t name, useless while she sniffled and sobbed. Mere moments ago she’d said she  _wanted_ him there-- said a few other, more unexpected things, too, though the gods knew there was no sensible reason for her to think anything kind of him at all. Perhaps her wailing meant she’d finally come to her senses.

“Little bird,” he called, hoping to rouse her from her weeping and trying not to sound as annoyed as he felt.  He wished he had his armor on. He wished he could draw his sword. He understood those things well-- that sort of fight-- but this thing with her… he had no defense.

“I don’t  _understand_ ,” she gasped suddenly, punctuated with a heavy sniffle. “Why are you here?”

“Your betrothed requested a septon so you could be...”

Sansa quieted.

Words deserted him. Even now, knowing it would happen anyway-- had  _already_ happened anyway-- he couldn’t bear to think of her getting married.  To  _anyone_. But worse than that was the knowledge that she didn’t even  _want_ to get married, was obviously dreading it... and he’d brought with him the one person who could make it happen.  

“So… you didn’t know I was here?” she asked, peeking up at him from wet lashes.

He shook his head, wanting her to know he had not betrayed her intentionally, but her shoulders slumped anyway. Seemed he was destined to disappoint her no matter what.

“You must think me a fool, wishing for you like that,” she slurred; sighed. “I think I’ve gone mad.”

“So do I,” he agreed, cause if she was hoping for him of all people then she _must_ be at least a little mad. She was definitely more than a little drunk.  “We’re going.”

“Going?”

“Yes, going,” he growled. “Will you come with me this time or do I need to put a knife to your throat?”

“But… I’m not even the reason you’re here.”

“No, but you’re the reason I’m leaving.”

“Truly?”

“Would I lie to you, girl?”

She paused... blinked... mouth agape as she worked something out in her head though what she was thinking of he could not say. When she finally lifted her eyes to him there was a spark of mischief in them, and a knowing smirk stretched across her face.

“Yes.”  

His anger flared. She thought she knew him, did she? Thought she  _understood_  him. She didn’t. Silly ignorant foolish naive little child didn’t know anything half as well as she thought she did.

“Brave girl. Weren’t so brave last I saw you. Couldn’t even look at me. Remember?”

“I remember.  I thought you were going to kiss me. For a while I convinced myself you  _did_. _”_  She shook her head at the memory. “I don’t know why I did that. Why were you there?”

“Why do you  _think_  I was there?”  

He said it with as much malice as he could, as much danger, colored the question with a lewd meaning he didn’t think she could miss. Not after everything she’d been through. And he was right, because after a moment she answered:

“You… were going to claim me… against my will?”  

The words were high and uncertain, and pushed their way between his ribs like a needle. That was it, though, wasn’t it? That was what he’d told himself hundreds of times, thousands, since he left her in the lion's den that night _. I should have fucked her bloody like I intended_  he’d growl at the memory of it. _It was the plan all along, and I ruined it._  It was weakness for the flesh that sent him to her room that night; it was, in truth, the only weakness he was willing to admit.  And yet hearing it now on her lips was worse than saying it in his head and the words clanged oddly against the stone, false and hollow.

She always was a terrible liar.

“No,” he grumbled his defeat.  “That’s not why I was there.”

“I didn’t think so,” she smirked again, and he could not bear that smug look on her face, the one that said  _I knew it_.  “Oh, but you never got your song.”

His stomach churned.  “My song?”

“The song you came for,” she hummed, lips pursed and brow raised. “I can give it to you now, if you like.”

There was no mistaking her meaning, not with the way she purred her honey-sweet offer or the way she regarded him with heat in her eyes.  And it made him sick knowing how she got like this, everything she’d been through at Joffrey’s hands, at the Imp’s hands, at Baelish’s hands. Not that he was any better-- he  _did_ want a song from her. But not like this. Not as compensation.  

The only question was-- would he be strong enough to say no?  

Seemed not. Because he didn’t even try to stop her when she stepped into him the way he’d always imagined she would, so close he could feel her warmth, close enough to smell the wine on her breath when she brought her lips up to him… and sang.

The girl was earnest, he’d give her that.  Talented, too, her sweet voice caressing every word of that insipid tale of Florian the Fool. Sandor listened with amusement to the innocent lyrics she crooned up at him, her pretty lips curling, stretching, smiling at him while she sang.  

Of course she meant a song. How could he have ever thought otherwise?  

_Same silly little bird._

“That’s not the song you meant,” she declared firmly when it was over, surprising him.  “But it’s the only song you’ll get from me. Just so you know.”

“I know,” he nodded.   _Not_ the same silly little bird, then.

“Good. Where will we go?”

“Does it matter?”

She cocked her head at him and raised a brow, though if that was a sign of hesitation or a sign of playfulness he wasn’t sure.  She’d just successfully negotiated the terms of her own escape, demanded he agree to them before they left, and deftly parried his blow when he tried to knock some sense in her.  He was no match for this girl; he’d always known it, but now she knew it too.

And in truth it was a relief to see her like that, with her chin up, strong and confident and proper.  Smarter now. And wiser. She knew exactly what she was getting into with him. Assuming, of course, that she genuinely wanted to go.  

“No,” she said at last and showed him a radiant smile that assuaged his fears.  “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS!


End file.
